


The Youth of the Heart sequence

by gayalondiel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hiatus, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after three years of being ‘dead’ thinking that he knows what he will find.  He doesn’t have all the information... (Angst).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love That Is True Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** Reichenbach, non-specific  
>  **Warnings:** n/a
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.

_“No, don’t say it.”_

 _“Oh. I...”_

 _“I know. It’s not a passing folly, I promise you.”_

 _“Then what is it?”_

 _***_

Sherlock hurried through the suburban streets towards the large stone building, a thrill of foreboding running through him. Three long years; three years alone, with only Mycroft’s coded messages for company and the threat of pursuit ever on his back. Three years he had been dancing with Moran in an intricate waltz leading through Europe, America and Asia, and only now was he close enough to the end to reveal everything to John.

It was scripted in his mind: he would arrive at John’s clinic in disguise, reveal himself under the security of doctor-patient confidentiality where no-one would disturb them. John’s knees would weaken and Sherlock would be there to catch him. Then they would be in each other’s arms, holding like they would never be parted again, until John caught his breath and Sherlock could explain the plan.

They would outsmart Moran, hand him over to Lestrade and then...

And then.

 _***_

 _  
_”It’s what you think. Just what you think, but don’t say it.”_   
_

_“Why not?”_

 _“It’s too dangerous.”_

***

Everything they hadn’t said before could be said. He was so close now. Just get him - get them - through this night, and then they could be together, could begin again what they had put on hold before it started, when John was bleeding and bruised and Sherlock was terrified for the first time in his life, and the weight of fear and pain brought them crashing down into the longing that had been gathering around them.

Now his mission was to find Mycroft, who would arrange the final details. He had given Mycroft’s assistant what seemed to be a minor heart attack by arriving back from the dead in his office, demanding audience. She had directed him to a church in North London and had been about to say more when he brushed her off impatiently and whirled out. He did not care a bit what Mycroft was doing, only that he needed to speak to him immediately.

Mycroft would get things in motion. And then Sherlock would head for the surgery, where John would welcome him with disbelief and open arms.

***

 _“You mean Moriarty.”_

 _“Yes.”_

 _“It’s dangerous enough, Sherlock.”_

 _“Even more if they know. They’ll use it against us, and I...”_

 _“You have to do what you have to do.”_

 _“Yes.”_

***

Mycroft had immediately given Sherlock’s plan his seal of approval, and had performed his role perfectly. The messages he had sent after Sherlock’s ‘death’ had been succinct and sufficient, save that the details of John were tissue-thin. Sherlock always pressed for more in the brief lines he sent back, and always heard the same from Mycroft. John remained living at Baker Street, working at the surgery, and consulting now as a forensic medical examiner for the Met. He was mostly well, except for the bout of swine flu he suffered last winter, and he remained alone.

Sherlock always asked, and Mycroft always answered. John was alone.

As though he was waiting for someone.

As he rounded the corner to the church, a peal of bells began to ring out and he saw people in bright spring colours pouring from the side doors. A wedding, then. In the very back of his mind he wondered whose wedding Mycroft cared to attend. Political machinations, no doubt. Dull.

***

 _“I know you have to.”_

 _“I do, though, John, I...”_

 _“I know that, too.”_

 _“We will have this.”_

 _“When?”_

***

There was Mycroft, resplendent in a pin-striped three piece suit, his customary silver-tipped umbrella clutched at his side. Sherlock wove his way through the gravestones, keeping to the edge of the church yard, until his brother’s sharp eyes swept the horizon like a search light and locked onto him. A ripple of shock crossed his face, and he made his apologies to the woman he was standing with and hurried into the shadows of the trees. Sherlock followed, but not before glancing at the woman.

Mrs. Hudson.

Why was Mrs. Hudson here?

Mycroft reached him and began to speak before Sherlock could open his mouth.

“You must understand,” he said in a low but urgent voice, “it was for the best. It was too soon for you to return, the risk was too great....”

“Mycroft...” Sherlock’s voice faltered into a breathless whisper, as he realised where they were.

“And I knew you would return, if you were told...”

The crowd now milling outside the western doors of the church gave a sudden happy shout, drowning out Mycroft’s voice. A lump of ice settled in Sherlock’s stomach as he turned, knowing what he would see, unable to stop himself, willing his eyes to close even as they burned to see for themselves.

There was a man in a grey suit, Greg Lestrade, looking every inch the best man. He was smiling at the woman next to him - apparently he had reconciled with his wife recently - and then the happy couple moved past them into the sunlight.

John, in his dress uniform, a beautiful and spirited woman in a white gown and a sparkling veil clinging to his arm. They paused, kissed passionately, and the crowed shouted approval.

Sherlock was numb. As if from miles away he heard Mycroft talking again.

“Her name is Mary. You were dead, and John is now happy. Do not take that from him.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed back the tears that threatened suddenly. He could not hear, could not feel, could barely see. He turned to go, but at the last second he looked back at his friend, his once and future and now never lover.

Right then John looked round, his face alight with happiness. Their eyes met as if drawn to one another. Sherlock saw the moment John saw him, and knew. When he realised what had been, and what had not; what would be and what would not be.

***

 _“When it’s safe. For you, for me, for you because of me, when Moriarty’s out of the picture. I’ve no right to ask, but...”_

 _“Of course I can wait. If you can.”_

 _“I would wait forever.”_

 _“Then so will I.”_


	2. Never Be Sung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Love That Is True Love. In the aftermath of Sherlock’s arrival at the wedding, John comes back to Baker Street to confront him.

The flat was cold and dark. There were full boxes everywhere and the traces of John’s last night and morning there, empty beer bottles, tea mugs on the drainer, and open pot of shoe polish where either he or Lestrade had got distracted in the rush to have everything ready in time to get to the church.

John technically had not vacated the flat yet but he was taking shelter at Mary’s larger, brighter, warmer flat. Their plan involved returning from the honeymoon they were due to go on in two days’ time, moving into Mary’s flat their until her let was up, and then buying a house somewhere in the suburbs, near a park and a primary school and local shops run by local people. Somewhere you could raise children, a bright sunny house in a bright sunny neighbourhood where bright sunny Mary could be a perfect housewife for her adoring husband. John would be bored stiff. It was enough to make Sherlock sick.

“Don’t hate Mary,” said Lestrade, giving him an unnervingly perceptive look over the top of his paper. It was the first time either of them had spoken for hours, although Lestrade had been there more or less constantly since Mycroft confirmed that Moran, warned off and fleeing, had been picked up by UK Border Agency Officials at Dover.

Of all the humiliating conclusions, to be bested by trumped up civil servants. Sherlock could only bring himself to care superficially, though. His mind kept slipping back to the inevitable loss of the one thing that had kept him going through the long, lonely winters when he had longed to pick up the phone and speak to his best friend, his...

Nothing more than that. Maybe not even that.

“She’s a good woman,” Lestrade was saying over his thoughts. “She’s good for John, she helped him a lot, and he loves her, Sherlock. I don’t know exactly what happened between you guys, although I always thought you were a little co-dependent, but they’re really good together.”

“So I gathered,” Sherlock bit out, his voice dry and slightly raspy.

“The honeymoon is in two days. They’re going to some remote island somewhere. John’s been planning it for months,” Lestrade continued, as if that somehow had any bearing on the situation. Sherlock ignored him. Lestrade shook his head and turned back to the paper.

Sherlock was considering shouting at him, demanding to know what he wanted, why he was still there, deriding him and ridiculing him until he’d just _leave_ , damn it, when the light of Lestrade’s phone beamed through the darkening room. Sherlock snatched it off the coffee table before the other could reach it.

“Damn it, Sherlock...”

“It’s John,” said Sherlock, ignoring him and reading the brief message. “He’s coming here.”

“Does he want me to stay?”

“I don’t...”

“Does _he_?”

Sherlock tossed the phone back at him, defeated.

“He doesn’t say.”

***

They had been sitting in strained silence for what seemed like hours, although it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes at the most. Mrs Hudson had been up with a fresh pot of tea and a clean mug - John must have called her, too - and then retreated in silence. Sherlock felt slightly guilty that he was taking his discomfort out on her, but dismissed the notion from his mind as soon as she left the flat.

Eventually the front door opened and then closed with unusual force, and there was a familiar step on the stairs. Lestrade stood and gathered his phone and jacket. He paused as he passed Sherlock, reaching out in an abortive movement as though he had gone to grip Sherlock’s shoulder and then thought better of it.

“You know where I’ll be,” he said in a sort of promise, and walked out. Sherlock heard muffled voices in the stairwell, keeping themselves as low as possible so he couldn’t make out the words, and then Lestrade continued down the stairs. Sherlock folded his legs into his chest, making himself as small as possible. It was somehow comforting.

John walked in, not quite slamming the flat door behind him. He stalked over to his seat and dropped into it, fixing Sherlock with a piercing and furious stare.

“Do you know what she said?” he demanded, forceful but quiet. It was not what Sherlock had expected. There was no _So_ , no _You’re alive then_ , no _I can’t believe it_ and not even _Do you have any idea what you put me through, you complete bastard?_ All these things he had planned for. John seemed to be starting halfway through the conversation.

 _Mary_. How was he possibly supposed to know what Mary had said? He had never even met her, and could only think of her as an obstacle, something to be put aside, overcome.

“I didn’t know,” he offered instead. “Mycroft told me you were still single. If I thought I would lose you I would have...”

“I _don’t care_!” shouted John with percussive force. Sherlock fell silent and watched as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Do you know what she said?” he repeated.

“Of course not,” snapped Sherlock. “I would guess... she doesn’t want you seeing me?”

John laughed shortly.

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “No idea at all. You go, you leave, you let me think you’re dead, and I go on with my life and meet someone and fall in love, that’s right, I love her and she loves me, even though I thought I wouldn’t ever be able to love anyone again after I lost you, and now she says to me, _do you know what she said?_ ”

“Of course I don’t!”

“She said she always knew I loved you first!” yelled John. His words rang in the air and then silence fell around them, heavy and oppressive. It was dark enough that Sherlock could not see John properly but he knew him well enough to see the distress in every twitch of his cheek, every flutter of his eyelids.

“You loved me first?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you know that and I know that and I _told her_ about you. How you were the fucking love of my fucking life and how I didn’t think there would be anyone after you until she came along... She got to hear all that, so she knows everything.”

“Everything,” repeated Sherlock faintly. Stupidly.

“And now she wants me to choose,” John continued, whispering harshly now. “To choose you, or her, she’ll understand either way and if I choose you I have her blessing. Her _blessing_. Do you have any idea how hard that is? How much that fucking hurts? I have to choose between the only two people I’ve ever loved. How am I supposed to do that, how am I even supposed to start?”

He collapsed back in his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sherlock, slightly dazed after the outburst, felt his mind kick into gear. If he could convince John, show him why it had to be that way, show him how much it had hurt, all the emails he had drafted and memorised and deleted but remembered well enough to recite - one for every single day, for over three years. If he could enumerate for him the number of times he had dialled all but the last digit of John’s mobile phone. If he could explain that the single reason Sherlock had not come back was that he could not bear the idea of John being in danger, hurt, threatened for his sake. Not again, never again.

If he could make him understand, then maybe...

John was watching him.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t give me some logic, don’t try to convince me. You can’t argue me back to you, and I don’t think you quite realise how that will look when Mary’s essentially handed me over to you if that’s what I want.”

“I think your telling me that negates any credit I might get from not doing it,” Sherlock said after a moment. John almost laughed.

“It won’t hurt your case,” he said. He leant his head back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Just don’t bury me in words. I need to work this out on my own.”

“Then why did you come here?” asked Sherlock. He regretted it the moment he said it, but John didn’t seem to mind.

“I just needed to see you.”

“Your eyes are closed, you can’t see me.”

“You know what I mean. I haven’t even touched you, I thought I might have hallucinated you. Still do, a bit.”

The only response was obvious. Sherlock slid from the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of John. He took his hand with his own, pressed a tender kiss to the palm, and when he looked up John had raised his head and was looking directly at him, his lips slightly open.

“You’re really real,” he whispered. Sherlock reached up, wrapped one hand gently around the back of his neck and slowly drew his head down.

There were four inches between them when John whispered “I love you” and Sherlock replied “I know.”

There were a scant two when John whispered “I love her” and Sherlock replied “I know that too.”

Then they were kissing, fiery and passionate, two souls long parted clinging to one another once more and finding that they fit still, the worn edges somehow still matching perfectly. Sherlock held on tightly and they pressed together for long minutes. Desperate, as though it was the last kiss they would ever share.

Which it might well be.

Finally they parted, John drawing back first, but late enough that Sherlock had tasted the tang of salt creeping into the kiss. He pressed his forehead to John’s, keeping his eyes closed, not wanting to see the tears, the pain he had caused by staying away. By coming back.

“I love her.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I...”

“I know too.” John drew a deep breath, and Sherlock could hear it trembling, could feel the rapid pattern of the ragged exhale on his skin. He drew back, preparing to give it all up, make the sacrifice, cast it all away, because he could not be the one to do this to John any more than Mary could.

When he looked up, though, the words died unspoken because it was John, _John_ , wonderful, brilliant, amazing John, and he knew he could never give that up. For once in his life, he was completely without a clue.

John looked back at him, tears glistening on his cheeks, his eyes reddening slightly. Sherlock felt a crack appear in his heart - the heart he was never supposed to have - as he watched and waited.

“I don’t know what to do,” John whispered finally in a small, broken voice. “I don’t... Sherlock. What should I do?”


	3. The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Love That Is True Love & Never Be Sung. Sherlock, John and Mary try to work out how to get on with their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE if you're following this the rating has gone up. I didn't realise what happens in this chapter was going to happen. It's now R/Mature which is pretty cautious but I want to be safe.

Three months down the line, they were managing, constructing a life that worked around the three of them.

Three months after Sherlock had kissed John once more, stepped back and told him to take his wife on his honeymoon and forget about what they had had; after John had dried his eyes and walked away with stiff shoulders; after Sherlock had paced the flat for hours, longing to go out and find something to relieve the numbing chill of it, prevented only by the guilt he would see in John’s eyes when he found out.

Two months after Mary had started inviting him round regularly for dinner in their lovely, warm, bright flat, and he had bitten the inside of his cheek and grudgingly accepted because he didn’t want to lose his past friend as well as his future lover.

One month after John had begun to relax with both of them in the same room and they had found that they could have fun, could discuss cases and tease John over his dress sense, and insult Sherlock’s lack of basic primary school knowledge. John teased Mary too, but Sherlock did not, although her eyes met his in bright challenge from time to time. All the while there was a tension hanging over the three of them, something that none of them could put a name to and none of them could dismiss.

Then came John’s birthday. It was a quiet evening, the decentish pub near Mary and John’s flat with the Lestrades and a couple of others from John’s surgery and the Met. Greg gave Sherlock a concerned look when he turned up a few minutes later than the Watsons to socialise with them in publicly for the first time, and he gave him a fractional nod in response. He was grateful that Sarah was not there to raise her eyebrows and attempt her own deductions about the nature of the relationship between the three of them. He knew what she thought about any woman willing to put up with him after her own fairly disastrous falling out with John over their work. Even though that was long before either he or John had considered themselves to be anything but friends and colleagues.

There was indeed something inevitable about that night, something that Greg and Sarah would both have frowned on but would not have been terribly surprised about. Sherlock, safely installed as best friend once again, was invited back to the Watsons’ rather than having to make his way back across town. John was already several pints the worse for wear and when they got back Mary produced the good whisky and they sat together drinking in a warm companionable fog.

John was leaning against him on the sofa and it seemed only natural when Mary left the room to turn to look at him, only to find John was looking back, and then somehow they were kissing deeply and Mary had returned and was standing in front of them. Before anyone could feel guilty or draw back, she had taken both of their hands and pulled them gently but firmly in the direction of the king-sized four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

The world narrowed into a blur of hands, lips, clothing being tugged away to reveal smooth skin, long brunette hair, short dirty blonde hair and tight black curls, lips and fluttering eyelashes. It wasn’t equal; Mary knew Sherlock had nothing but a perfunctory interest in her and returned about the same amount of attention. It was John’s birthday, and they had somehow come to a mute conclusion about how to give him what he wanted, everything he wanted, without feeling that he was betraying either of them or indeed himself, and so they focused their attentions on him.

John had not reached the same conclusion, though. As Mary traced patterns down his bare chest and tugged his hand beneath the silk of her blouse, and Sherlock pressed close behind him, lips against his neck, they both felt a shiver run through him. Then suddenly he moved away in a whirl of movement, leaving cold air between them, and fled the room.

They sat dumbstruck for a while, and then Mary tugged on her dressing gown and snatched up John’s.

“Give us a minute?” she said unhappily before rushing downstairs.

Sherlock retrieved his shirt from the foot of the bed and tugged it on, straightening his clothes and running his fingers through his hair to distract from the warring sensations of frustration, rejection, intoxication and relief all buzzing beneath his skin.

When he slipped down the stairs a few minutes later, John and Mary were huddled together on the sofa. John was pale and looked like he was holding back tears, and Mary looked distressed.

“I can’t,” John was whispering. “It’s too much, too...”

“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry, it just happened. It’s not... It doesn’t matter, baby. I’m sorry.”

“I understand why you thought... I’m so grateful, Mary, you really are amazing. I love you so much.”

“I know, baby.”

Something cold dampened all Sherlock’s emotions with one single realisation. John loved Mary. John was happy with Mary, had chosen her. Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, but that was all. All he could ever be, and if he pushed now, he would lose that too.

As quietly as possible he picked up his shoes and slipped out the door and down the stairs. He walked in his socks on the cold pavement until he was around the corner of the street and could drop his head back and curse at the stars and moon and the whole damned world for not telling him that he had lost.

***

He did not speak to John for three days, although he had a text from Mary the morning after checking that he had got home safely, to which he sent a single syllable by way of reply. On the fourth day Lestrade appeared at Baker Street with a locked room multiple murder-suicide, or possibly something else, and he knew the time was right. He pulled out his phone.

 _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

After that it was easier. He had John some days and some evenings, a friend and a colleague, and eventually they had their easy repartee back. Mary had John evenings and any day there wasn’t a case, and sometimes she convinced John to stay home even though there was one. For Sherlock that was deeply frustrating, in a way it always would have been, but he realised that in this case it was necessary, however irksome, to compromise.

Of course, Mary got John at nights, unless they were the kind of nights that involved hours or research or stakeouts in the freezing cold. At the end of those John went home to his four poster bed and his beautiful wife, and Sherlock went home alone to his violin.

On two occasions Sherlock was badly hurt, and John stayed with him then, sitting at his bedside until Sherlock reached out and dragged him down to the bed to stop him from falling asleep and toppling from his chair. Both times he awoke with John’s fully clothed arms wrapped tenderly around him and stayed still until he felt a kiss pressed to his temple, but they never spoke about it.

Once, in winter, John was thrown through thin ice in Regent’s Park and Sherlock half dragged him back to the flat and pulled him into a huddle of arms and duvet on the bed. When Mary arrived at his summons, she let herself in and silently joined them in the chaste but intimate embrace, staying all night and late into the morning.

***

Eventually the day came that he had been anticipating with a sense of dread for some time, although John had not hinted at it. Mary turned up at Baker Street halfway through a case with a packed supper for her husband. Sherlock could see instantly that there was something different about her, and the warm but somehow slightly proprietory smile John gave her after brushing her cheek with a kiss.

“How long?” asked Sherlock, determinedly distracted. Mary’s eyes widened but John just shook his head.

“I should have known,” he muttered.

“Seven weeks,” said Mary with a bright smile. “It’s really early days, so please, don’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not,” replied Sherlock, trying to ignore the way his mind was extrapolating the duties of a father, the responsibilities, the time that would take from John’s life.

From his own life.

***

John’s next birthday had been and gone, with significantly less alcohol, when Mary turned up unexpectedly at Sherlock’s flat and let herself in. It was unusual for her to be there without John as he was essentially what they had in common, and beyond that she understood better than most people how Sherlock needed space from people, mundane minds and dull chatter. He could understand what it was about her that so enthralled John: she was, in her own way, brilliant.

“I have something to ask you,” she said. “I was hoping John would ask but he’s been a little wary about it, and I thought...”

Possibilities flashed through Sherlock’s mind, but as with John, he had learned early that he could not reliably anticipate Mary. The day John walked into the flat and told him that she was giving him the choice of the two of them, he had realised that, and she had not stopped surprising him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, gesturing her to the armchair that he still thought of as John’s. She smiled and eased into it, four months of pregnancy now showing on her otherwise slender frame.

“You know we’re expecting a boy?” she asked. Sherlock nodded. “Well, traditionally that means two godfathers and a godmother. We’ve already asked Greg and Sheena, and we... John... would be honoured if you would be the other godfather.”

Sherlock was at least gratified that he had been right to think she could still surprise him. He sat in silence for a long moment.

“I’m hardly a parental figure,” he said.

“You’re John’s best friend.”

“I don’t think I could be described as responsible.”

“You’re very capable. And intelligent.”

“Terribly unreliable.”

“There is no-one in this world that John trusts more than you.”

“Even after...”

“Especially after that,” Mary said firmly. “Sherlock, you came back from the dead for John, and you were dead because he had to be safe, and you came back and stuck it out even though it wasn’t what you expected. I know he doesn’t say so, but that means the world to John. We don’t need an answer now, but would you think about it? Please?”

“Of course,” replied Sherlock helplessly. It was a gross misrepresentation of the facts but he couldn’t face the argument that would ensue if he pushed it. At the very least, considering the request would give him time to form a coherent argument against being named a godfather. Maybe it would be long enough to acclimatise to the idea that John wanted to be able to call him family, in some distant way, and to consider accepting.

Mary stayed for a little longer and then rose to go and run her errands. Sherlock saw her down the stairs - apparently her sense of courtesy was rubbing off on him - and something in the back of his mind noted that the road outside was particularly empty as she kissed him on the cheek and he turned to go back inside.

He heard the roar of the engines and the police car siren as he closed the door, and he yanked it back open just too late to see the impact as the joy-ridden BMW mounted the pavement where Mary was walking away. The BMW pulled off with squealing tyres, the police car dragged to a halt and two officers piled out yelling into their radios. But Sherlock only had eyes for Mary, John’s wife, the mother of John’s child, lying on the pavement, the life ebbing from her. With one hand he grabbed his phone as he dropped to his knees in blood - Mary’s blood, John’s lifeblood - and with the other he grabbed at hers, calling her name.

She could not die. John needed her, and all the warring emotions he had lived with for over a year were swept away. She could not die.

John was answering his call, and Sherlock heard himself say “Baker Street... Mary... now...” He heard the panic in John’s voice as he understood and began to run, wherever he was. Then the phone had slipped from his fingers and both his hands were on Mary, trying to keep her alive, keep her awake, fend off the police who were trying to take over.

John needed her. She could not die.


	4. Saved for My Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to terms with what Mary's death means for John, and for them both.

Sherlock had been sat in the waiting room, shifting his angular frame against hard moulded plastic for a good fifteen hours when John walked back in, his skin ashen, his hands trembling. There was a nurse at his side, one hand on his arm, but Sherlock didn’t need to hear from him. He _knew_.

In an instant he was at John’s side, one arm around him protectively, and the nurse stepped back. John looked up at him, dazed.

“We need to wait,” he said. “There’s paperwork... I need to sign things. I need to call Mary’s parents. I need... Sheena and Greg, they’ll help. Can you...”

Sherlock already had his phone to his ear, firmly quashing the stinging pain that John wanted someone else to help, not him. Maybe John blamed him? Maybe he would never be able to talk to him again, never look in the eyes of the man who knelt helplessly by his wife as the life drained from her.

Greg was answering. Sherlock fumbled for words, concision warring with not wanting to see John’s eyes flood and spill over as the truth fell irrevocably from his lips. He spoke quietly and Greg understood too soon.

“We’re coming, we’re coming now. I’ll bring the car. We’re just a few minutes away. Jesus. I’m so sorry. We’re coming now.”

Sherlock hung up the phone. Looking down, he noticed that although John was sat motionless and silent, his hand had dropped to the side and was resting between them. The backs of his fingers just brushed Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock hesitated, then slipped his hand down to meet it and John tightened his fingers and held on, as though he needed an anchor.

Sherlock wondered if this was the way he had been when he found that note at the waterfall, realised that Sherlock was dead. He remembered watching from a distance as John yelled his name, over and over into the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember if he had seen this dullness in his eyes, or this grey in his skin.

He wondered who had held John’s hand that day. Whether anyone had.

***

In the days leading up to the funeral, Sherlock found that the pang of guilty envy he had felt at the hospital had been unjustified. John wanted Greg and Sheena around because they were practical people. They could arrange and communicate and provide level heads for issues like funerals and wakes, catering and logistics. They came every day, bringing casseroles from themselves, Donovan, Anderson’s wife, Dimmock, and others from the team. Dimmock’s, surprisingly, turned out to be the best by far. They brought spreadsheets and lists and provided a talking-to-families service so John didn’t have to deal with it. The only phone calls John took were from Harry, and that was the only time anyone heard John cry.

Greg and Sheena came every day, but Sherlock never left. That first night Greg had driven them back to John’s flat and they all stayed, drifting off to sleep where they sat in mutual shock. Sherlock had dozed for an hour and when he woke saw the Lestrades curled together on the sofa, clinging to one another tightly in sleep. John had disappeared, and when he went looking Sherlock found him sitting on the bed, clutching Mary’s jumper with a dead look in his own eyes.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, unable to even think of any words that might work, and then turned to go. He was almost round the corner to the living room when a word drifted out after him.

“Stay.”

Sherlock didn’t move. “Tonight? Of course.”

John’s breath was shaking. “I mean, until... stay. For a bit.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

***

“A bit” stretched out to “until the funeral”. The wake was held at John and Mary’s flat and after the service John focused on hosting, Sheena on food and Greg on keeping the chatter as light as he could manage. Sherlock skulked in the corner for the most part, avoiding the uneasy looks that the more distant members of Mary’s family threw him, knowing him only as someone who had turned up and disrupted the wedding briefly before fleeing. Every now and then, though, John would pass with someone and introduce him as “my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” with just enough bite to make a point.

When the last people had gone and Greg and Sheena had finished cleaning up and disappeared into a taxi, Sherlock lay back on the bed in the spare room and closed his eyes. Never the best at schooling his mind to stillness, he was inundated with images from the day. Mourners in grey and black gathered in a church, a bland Church of England service conducted by a bland Church of England vicar. John standing, speaking a few halting words over the coffin before it was borne to the cemetery. The interment had been family only and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he qualified for that, but he had, and so he had seen John, cold and unmoving as a statute, head bowed over the grave.

No-one had caught his eye or muttered to him that nearly five years ago John had stood the same way at another memorial service.

No-one had to.

The door opened, shattering his thoughts. Before he could open his eyes the bed dipped and he felt John slip beneath the covers next to him.

“John...”

John moved close and it was more than Sherlock could do to resist putting his arms around him. John’s head settled on his shoulder.

“I miss her,” he whispered. Something was broken in his voice. Sherlock tightened his arms and held him through the wakeful night.

***

Sherlock had been back at Baker Street, getting on with life, for three weeks when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. He had been making a point of texting him every day, little inconsequential things, things that said “I’m here if you need me” without actually saying the words, and John had been texting back. He hadn’t made any suggestion of coming over though, which was why Sherlock turned in surprise as the door opened. John walked in with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. It was immediately clear what he was thinking.

“Do you mind?” he asked without preamble. “I need some space. Do you mind if I come home for a bit?”

“Home?” replied Sherlock, unable to let the word pass unremarked. John smiled ruefully.

“Home from home, I guess,” he replied, dropping his bag by the door and walking over to his armchair. “Chinese?”

The evening passed in a haze of takeaway and bad science-fiction, after John flicked on the TV and found an old movie called _The Rocketeer_ that he claimed to have loved as a child. It was ridiculous by anyone’s standards, down to the jet-pack equipped Nazis, but John seemed to relax. During one of the ad breaks he made tea and when he returned settled on the sofa beside Sherlock instead of in his chair. Sherlock took the opportunity of discreetly observing him, taking in the lines in his skin, the bags under his eyes. He estimated with concern that John had lost five to six pounds since the funeral.

John was talking slightly blearily about how much of an asset it would be for Sherlock to have a jetpack. He was describing bird’s eye detective skills and the speed of direct flight across London, but Sherlock listened to the rhythm and slur of his words instead and recognised the sign that John hadn’t slept properly in days, maybe weeks. So when the movie finished he just flicked through the channels until he found something acceptable and let John watch that too, until he slumped against Sherlock’s shoulder and began to breathe more deeply.

They stayed like that for five hours, until Sherlock’s back and neck ached, but he tried to doze and didn’t move until he felt John stir. As the morning light stole through the window John muttered and woke, and Sherlock turned to look at him. John raised his head, and the connection between them suddenly seemed overwhelmingly strong. Sherlock felt himself close the distance and pressed a kiss on John’s lips. John kissed him back needily, parting his lips.

They jumped back at the same moment, putting a gulf between them.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Sherlock. The unfamiliar word tasted savoury and bitter between his teeth.

John nodded mutely, looking shaken. He got up in silence and headed upstairs to the spare room that Sherlock still thought of as _John’s_. His fingertips brushed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed.

***

Months ticked by and John stayed more frequently at Baker Street, first during cases and on bad days (Mary’s birthday, their anniversary, days when the sun had the temerity to shine happily), then on days after cases when he made sure Sherlock’s post-fasting diet was reasonably healthy, then a few times a week for movie nights and takeout with no excuse. Everyone else had seen it coming a mile off and then some when John finally moved back in completely, giving up the lease on his home with Mary.

The day he moved in Sherlock got buried in emails for a few hours and only surfaced when his internal John monitor informed him that he had been in his room for six hours without making a noise. He stuck his head round the door and found his once-again flatmate sat on the bed with an empty box on the floor and jewellery and dried flowers, keepsakes and mementos strewn around him. His eyes were red.

“Tea?” asked Sherlock, and headed back downstairs to put the kettle on, and to give John space to collect himself and follow.

Sherlock made the tea, dug out the oat and raisin cookies that Mrs Hudson had dropped in for them that morning, and found John settled on the sofa when he entered the living room. John’s fingers brushed his as he handed him the mug, and Sherlock felt the old familiar shiver of sensation at the contact. He ignored it, but when he sat John leant in towards him. His intent was unmistakable as he put down the mug and guided Sherlock’s face around gently with a light touch of fingers on his jaw.

It took an heroic effort, as John reached up for a kiss, for Sherlock to put a stilling hand on his shoulder.

“John...”

“Sherlock. Please...”

“No.” The word was painful, cold, final, and hurt flashed in John’s eyes moments before the shutters slammed down behind them. “You’re not ready, John. You need to...”

“ _Don’t_ tell me what I need!” snapped John harshly. His cheeks were flushed with humiliation and anger. He practically leapt from the sofa, ignoring his tea, and stormed back up the stairs. The door slammed behind him.

The next day he trotted down the stairs enquiring about tea, breakfast and whether Sherlock had a case on, like it had never happened. Sherlock had spent the night fighting off his desire to run after John, kiss him, claim him and own him again, with the knowledge that now was not the time, that there might never be a time for them. He let the unspoken questions and worries pass as John placed a plate of toast in front of him.

***

Sherlock picked up the phone the third time the unidentified number rang in short succession. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he heard often, as John kept her at a distance, but he recognised Harry immediately. She would not be calling him unless it was serious.

“What is it?” he asked briskly.

“It’s John,” she replied. “He’s not in a good way, I need you to go find him. I’d go, but it’ll take me a couple of hours to get into town, and...”

Quickly he interrogated her for details. John had called her about half an hour ago. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty, Thursday. He probably should have noticed that John wasn’t home. John had been drunk, babbling about nothing, said he wasn’t with anyone and he was lonely, but there had been voices in the background that sounded like a pub of some kind. He didn’t get drunk often. It went unspoken between them that when Watsons drank, they drank for England: Sherlock knew that from rare experience. John had hung up on Harry when she tried to talk him into going home, and now was not picking up the phone.

He got Harry off the line as quickly as he could and called John. The phone rang out and went to voicemail four times. Turning to his laptop he called up the GPRS bookmark for John’s phone and typed in his login and password.

As soon as the map gave him a location, he was running out the door.

There were two bars and a pub all next door to one another when he got to the street given. The pub was more likely for John, and he crossed his fingers that he had not moved on after he realised that Sherlock would be coming for him. Despite being a weekday evening it was packed out and the mixed aroma of spilt beer and grimy sweat assaulted his senses. Pushing past it, he cut a path through the crowd, peering around for a black and white striped jumper. Finally the familiar pattern caught his eye and he turned to see John, at a table with a younger man Sherlock had never seen before, having the life snogged out of him.

A flare went off behind Sherlock’s eyes. He stalked over and pushed them apart, taking in John’s dazed and intoxicated look seconds before the other man, tall, burly, powerfully built, stood up from his chair.

“What the fuck are you on?” he demanded. Sherlock ignored him.

“John, we’re leaving,” he snapped.

“No,” replied John belligerently. “I’m talking to Dave, having a great time here. You want to join us?” Dave did not look particularly impressed with that suggestion.

“Absolutely not. Come with me.” Sherlock gripped John’s arm and pulled him to his feet, but a hand landed on his own shoulder and dragged him around.

“He said no,” said Dave in a dangerous voice. “You want to leave him alone, right now.”

Sherlock flicked a glance over him. He thought about giving voice to the facts that Dave was a married businessman, probably a banker, who was in the habit of leaving his wife and kids at home, dressing down and coming to a pub in a part of town his social circle would not frequent to explore his latant homosexuality with random men, finding a dark corner to screw them in, and then returning home to his happy marriage, the perfect model of successful masculinity. That he had an eye for men who were vulnerable and was practiced in taking advantage of that fact. He thought about announcing all that to John and the surrounding men and women who were now watching curiously, loudly enough for the approaching bouncer to hear, but that would take time and argument and he just wanted to get John home.

He jerked back from Dave’s grip and floored him with a single punch.

Gasps erupted from the small crowd and the bouncer sped over, but Sherlock had eyes only for John who was looking at him with dark fury.

“Are you coming home?” he demanded. John looked at the bouncer, clearly considering the pros and cons of causing more of a fuss. Whether getting the police involved as they undoubtedly would be would do more damage to Sherlock, Dave or himself. Whether he wanted Greg to find out, whether he wanted them to owe another favour to Mycroft. Whether he wanted to stay and have a casual fuck to see if it would make the pain go away for a second, only to find it didn’t and he had added guilt and shame to the mess of his emotions. Whether he wanted to go home, shout at Sherlock, be shouted at in return, dissolve into the tears that he had to date let no-one near and be held through the night by his flatmate as he sobbed for his beloved wife and the child who had never been born.

He nodded mutely. Dave, sensibly, stayed down but glared from his position on the floor. Sherlock whirled before anyone could touch him and stormed out, knowing that John was following.

***

One year after Mary had visited him to ask him to be godfather to her firstborn son, Sherlock approached her grave in the cold morning light. He had brought roses, ivory, the kind she had held in her wedding bouquet, and laid them before the marker stone.

He thought about talking out loud, knew it was the kind of thing that people did, but it seemed absurd. Instead he stood silent and thought about Mary, who had been there for John, picked up the pieces of a man grieving for his best friend and given him a life, a happy one. How kind she had been, always wanting the best for John, above her own happiness as well as Sherlock’s. He wondered if she would approve of John living with him again, back in the old habit of cohabitation and cases. He thought she would be pleased.

He wondered if she would be surprised that Sherlock had resisted John’s four separate attempts to draw him into a physical relationship as he desperately sought after some form of comfort. His last try had been five months ago. John now seemed to be achieving a sense of peace, although Sherlock had read extensively and knew well that a year was no more than a drop in the ocean of the grieving process.

Nevertheless, he was here, bringing an offering to a shrine as though asking for permission. _Can I have him? He belongs to you, will you loan him to me, let me love him, let me care for him, give him comfort. Is it time yet?_

He felt a slight kiss of gentle raindrops on his cheek as if in answer.

Sherlock stood quietly at the grave a few minutes longer before he heard the telltale footsteps walking down the path behind him. They stopped at his side, and he did not turn, but felt a hand slip into his, lacing fingers with his own, as the rain began to fall.


	5. Epilogue: Will Not Fade Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue of the Youth of the Heart sequence. Sherlock and John go on with life, together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one to finish, and that’s your lot. Thank you so much people who have stuck with this through all the angst - there came a point at the beginning of chapter four where even I, the evil author, wanted to fix it so that they could all live in OT3 land with a baby, but that was never where the story was going. Hopefully this is a bit of a balm after all the woe and grief. Thanks guys, it’s been fun!

Sherlock and John worry about each other, constantly.

It has become a standing joke among Greg's team at Scotland Yard. If John has a duty shift Sherlock will be hanging around, annoying detectives, digging through cold cases and generally making a nuisance of himself, but always within reach of the Forensic Medical offices. If Sherlock is called in they now know well enough to copy John in on the message, and the two will arrive together, with an observable closeness between them that had not been there before. Greg repeatedly grumbles to Sally how bloody impossible it is to maintain a conversation with one of them on their own, because of the frequency with which the other will text them. He hopes fervently that they're both on unlimited message plans.

Generally, though, people understand. Those that know realise John has lost the two loves of his life, and some miracle of the universe allowed one to come back to him, so they won't begrudge him a little neediness. They may not agree with what Sherlock has done in the past, but they do at least respect the fact that he walked away from John, twice, once to keep him safe and once to stop him from ripping his own heart in two. No-one has the nerve now to tell them that they shouldn't be together, and shouldn't cling to that change in their relationship until they get used to the fact that it's not going to vapourise if they let go. In time the distance they can be parted and the time between texts will grow, as they learn to rely on their rebounding, naturally, inevitably, into one another's arms at the end of the day.

Sherlock has not spoken directly to Mycroft more than eight times, five times annually on their mother's birthday and three times for emergencies where Mycroft needed him badly enough to grovel in his own understated way, since the issue of Moran was wrapped up. John has been an unwilling liaison for two years, only when absolutely necessary, and never without reminding Mycroft that he too was still furious. Now he has begun initiating conversations with the elder brother himself, in the hope that he might in time be able to engineer a bridge of sorts across the rift between them.

John visits Mary's grave once a week, on Sundays. He tells her his news and sends love from her friends. He still wears his plain gold wedding ring on his left hand. On the first Sunday of every month Sherlock comes with him, bringing a bunch of white roses.

Two years into his exile, when Sherlock was lonely, heartsick and longing for John, he risked returning to Meiringen. While he was there he stopped in a tiny antique shop and happened upon a ring, gold and silver bands entwined, old and worn but clearly cared for and polished through the years. He bought it on some strange impulse, thinking _one day_ , and slipped it into his wallet.

Two weeks after John found standing Sherlock at Mary's grave in the rain and took his hand, he pinched Sherlock's wallet to pay the takeaway deliveryman at the door. When he handed Sherlock a plate full of biryani and rice a few minutes later, silver and gold glinted from the ring finger of his right hand.

When John and Sherlock have sex it's making love: reverant, adoring and worshipful. They were tentative the first time, are still uncertain, still fearing that the other might break or recoil or become overwhelmed. The undercurrent of passion that has always been between them is rising, though. One day soon John will come home from work and jump Sherlock, wrestle him to the floor, and show him things that neither of them has dared to imagine in all their years apart, because they could not bear thinking of it.

When they sleep, it's together. John sometimes goes to sleep before Sherlock, or wakes up alone, but there are always signs, ruffled bedsheets and residual heat, that tell him his partner has at some point crawled up under the covers and wrapped himself around John's sleeping self. There are nights when John cries for his wife and his child, for everything that he's lost, and sobs until there are no tears left; and Sherlock holds him tightly through the grief, an anchor to that which he still has. There are rarer nights where the weight of three years alone and two and a half apart weigh heavily on Sherlock and he lies blank and quiet, thinking of things he would never dare to give voice; and John holds his hand, strokes his hair, murmurs reassurance and waits patiently for the spell to pass.

And at some point, every night, awake or asleep, they curl up together and revel in warmth and comfort and love, two souls who have been through the storm, picked through the wreckage, and found one another there, beyond hope and imagining.


End file.
